


Schematics

by Saathi1013



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Multi, OT3, Other, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory & Amy's honeymoon aboard the Tardis. Unrepentant smut. </p>
<p>Decidedly NOT compliant with canon after "The Big Bang."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schematics

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, no britpick. Just going through my WiP archive and polishing some up for company. Errors, if pointed out, will be corrected with alacrity.

Amy - the brand-new Mrs. Amelia Pond-Williams, which is simultaneously thrilling and unbelievable - is snuggling up against him at the edge of the dance floor, watching the crowd when she gives a start in his arms. Rory stares over her shoulder, tucking the veil out of the way to scan more thoroughly, but all he can see is the expected. No laser-wielding robots or lizard-people swarming in and taking hostages, so that's good.   
  
(Although he really should give a nod to the bartender about his uncle, the man is looking a little wobbly and it'll only get worse when he gets another drink and spies the cluster of bridesmaids in the corner. But that means moving, and he's really quite happy where he is, thank you.)   
  
“Something wrong?” he asks, taking advantage of the proximity to kiss Amy's neck just behind her ear. She gives a little shiver and leans back against him.   
  
“Oh, nothing. I just keep getting flashes of memory. It's weird. ” She sways a little in his arms and twists to look at him, mischief in her eyes. “D'you remember being a Roman soldier – centurion – whatever?”   
  
He blinks, then gapes, a chunk of memory flaring bright in his mind all of a sudden. “What – I do now,” he says. It settles in awkwardly, pushing out the edges of his thoughts while it tries to jostle in with biology lectures and Upper Leadworth and River Song smirking razor-sharp at him. “That wasn't a dream...?” Two thousand years. Wait, is that right, two thousand years as a robot with a gun in one hand and a sword in the other? He's going to have to ask the Doctor (before he leaves) about it.   
  
“Mm,” she says, just shy of reassuring. But then she kisses him, so that helps. “Those must have been some parties,” she comments idly when they break apart, turning round to laugh at her aunt, being spun by one of the groomsmen out on the dance floor.   
  
“Better music here, though,” he points out.   
  
“True,” she admits, and purses her lips. Rory's uncle takes that moment to claim Amy for the next song, and that gives Rory the opportunity to have a word with the bartender.   
  
***   
  
Half an hour later, she's pulled Rory into the coat closet, and undone his belt buckle in such a rush he's barely had time to register her intent. Still, he's learned to follow her lead. She swats his hands away when he tries to hike up her skirt. “Don't rumple the dress, they'll know,” she hisses before kissing him again, hungrily, like they've got time to make up for.   
  
Two thousand years, he thinks dimly as she opens up his trousers. “Then what-” he says, when she lets him up for air.   
  
She quirks an eyebrow at him and pulls down one of the heavier coats, then drops to her knees. “Mind the veil,” she advises him tartly, and sets to work.   
  
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, god. Amy.”   
  
***   
  
She sends him out first, and slips off to the ladies' a minute later, to check her makeup and the knees of her dress. Rory just sits at one of the tables, waiting for his legs to work properly and blinking the stars from his eyes. He remembers when there weren't any stars, ever, and he'd watched history hiccup a little until he nudged navigation along a bit with magnets. Well, the Chinese already had compasses, but... why does he know all this? He was always rubbish at history. So much more muddled than science.   
  
Rory's father wheels out of the crowd to grab his glass, and drains it in one go. It's clear with ice, so fifty-fifty on whether it's alcohol. If it is, he may not have noticed they were gone. “Still can't believe it, eh?” he asks, cheerfully and a little too loud. (Vodka, then.)   
  
Amy appears out of nowhere to elbow Rory in the ribs, and he realizes he's supposed to respond. He's still a little stunned. There are scratches on the back of his thighs from Amy's manicure, he remembers dying (twice), and he just got married.   
  
“Not sure it'll ever sink in,” he says, and they all laugh.   
  
***   
  
Later, they're curled together on a single chair, debating whether it's too early to go to their suite. Then suddenly, Amy's up, out of his lap, whispering, “Back in a mo, just going to hit on the best man.”    
  
She kisses Rory, hard and fast, before she's gone. He raises a hand to object, but then shrugs. She's not going to get anywhere with Jeff, she's a woman. It'll just be funny. He settles in to watch the show. Then he notices that she's going the wrong way.   
  
Then he realizes that the Doctor's gone too, and it all clicks into place.    
  
He's not sure if he's more upset about Amy leaving him to rush off after the Doctor – again – or the fact that, had he not realized what was happening, he could have gotten left behind. Again.   
  
Still. Not many people can say they spent their honeymoon in a time machine.    
  
Once the Tardis takes off, Amy pulls him into one of the bedrooms and they make love on a bed bigger than his whole flat back home. It's covered in a sea of silk and pillows and acres of gauzy curtains. It would be appalling if they weren't so distracted. She tears her veil off and rips off half the buttons on his shirt, and they skid across the bed, giddy and laughing until their clothes get out of the way.   
  
Then they go quiet and still, trying to catch their breath. He pushes the waterfall of hair away from her face and opens his mouth to speak.   
  
“I know,” she says first, shifting above him, distractingly close. “I love you, too.” She kisses him again, sweet and true and real. He feels it down to his bones.   
  
“Two thousand years,” he says, gasping as she moves. “All I could think of,” and then he's there, right there, and she's riding him, slow and deep and even. She doesn't look away from him, doesn't close her eyes: she's right there with him, the whole time, all the way. With him, and it doesn't matter where or when they are.   
  
“Yes,” she says, her voice high and breathless. “Rory, yes.” He winds his fingers through the darker curls between her legs and makes her fall apart above him, just the way he remembers, even though they've never done this before. (She wanted to wear white to the wedding, so this was the one thing they've never done. But he's pretty sure that they did it like this when she got pregnant.)   
  
He pushes the memories to the back of his mind, and follows her over the edge.   
  
***   
  
Rory learns that, when you call the Doctor and he says “I'll be right there,” it can of course mean “I have a time machine, I could be there yesterday, but that would just be confusing, so I'll give the newlyweds enough time to shag in three bedrooms, the pool in the library, the kitchen twice, and a couple of other places, but for you it'll only be ten minutes.”    
  
He actually provides this definition when he catches them in the library. Then he leaves.   
  
After this, Rory's debates whether to continue or just let Amy giggle herself silly. (The best argument for the former is how she twitches when she's giggling, and he's wondering if laughter-endorphins will just make it better.) Before he's decided, the Doctor comes back, and Rory yelps in surprise.    
  
The other man tosses a book by their abandoned clothing. “Bit of reading, friend of mine left it last time he was here.” Then he leaves again.   
  
Rory breathes, very carefully, and gives up. The body's willing, as they say, but...   
  
Amy smacks him on the shoulder. “Come on, soldier, as you were,” and he obeys.   
  
***   
  
The book is illustrated. With moving pictures. “It's very... informative,” he offers, closing it carefully and sliding it back across the dining table towards Amy. She lifts the cover and peers at the frontspiece.   
  
“Property of Captain Jack Harkness,” she reads, then shrugs and flips through the pages. “We should probably just stick to Chapter One,” she comments. “We don't have the equipment for anything else.” Rory's relieved. Chapter Six looked terrifying. “Though even some of these,” she says, pointing, “look impossible.”   
  
“Not if you have a gravity belt,” the Doctor comments, and she jumps a mile, slamming the cover closed. He's standing at the doorway, eating an apple. “I've got one, if you want to borrow it.”   
  
“I thought you hated apples,” she says, when she gets her voice back. Rory feels like his face is on fire, and has decided to hide it behind his hands.   
  
“I did then, it wasn't what I needed to finish regenerating.”   
  
“Regenerating?” Rory manages, a little muffled.   
  
“Yeah, ten times and it never gets any easier. I'll leave the belt in your actual bedroom, Amy.” And then he meanders off, chewing with his mouth open.   
  
“Oh my god,” Rory says, still mortified.   
  
Amy nudges the book over until it bumps his elbow. “Quit your whining and look at page fourteen.”   
  
He does, and that's how the third time in the kitchen starts.   
  
***   
  
They've mostly calmed down (worn themselves out, more like, since the gravity belt not only assists nicely, as advertised, but is also exhausting to get the hang of) after the third day, so they stop by the control room to act like civilized people for a bit. Rory has promised himself that if they can make it an hour without their hands wandering inappropriately, they actually get to leave the Tardis on whatever adventure is waiting for them on the Orient Express (in space). It's really a win-win proposition.   
  
The Doctor hears them clattering down the hall, and is waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, goggles askew and making his hair go everywhere at once. He has his hands on his hips.   
  
“Absolutely not, turn around right now, if you start anything on the control panel we'll have to reboot the universe again. No. Get out.”   
  
“But-” Amy tries.   
  
“No.” He actually stands there with one hand on his hip and the other pointing back upstairs. “At least two more days, by the look of you. Out.”   
  
“Yes, sir,” Amy grumbles, towing Rory behind her as she retreats. He gives the Doctor a thumbs-up over one shoulder, but the Doctor just waves him off good-naturedly and pulls his goggles back down as he turns back to working on the ship. “Worse than my aunt,” she mutters.   
  
“Worse than everybody's aunt!” The Doctor's voice sing-songs behind them.   
  
***   
  
“Ooh, that's nice,” Amy says, flipping idly through the book. They're drowsing in bed, occasionally trading a fond caress but without the energy for much more. She pulls the book over so that Rory can see without moving his head. He opens one eye.   
  
“I don't care what else the Doctor has in this place, it's just not possible for us to do that,” he says.   
  
“Not us,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. “It's just... nice to look at. Sorry, didn't mean to offend your delicate hetero-masculine sensibilities.” She pulls the book away, huffing a small laugh at him under her breath.   
  
He actually rolls over to look her in the eye, mouth open, but the five responses that immediately jump to mind are all jumbled together. He settles for: “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“What, a girl can't like seeing two guys together? Double standard, that.” She flips to another page. “You'd say the same thing about this, wouldn't you?”   
  
He yawns. “That is not as impressive in person, when you've seen it dozens of times.” He folds his arms behind his head and settles in.   
  
“What?” Amy sits up, dragging the sheet away. He reaches for it just in time. (Turns out, a time/spaceship that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside can get a bit drafty at times. Some of the rooms are big enough to make their own weather.) “What d'you mean, dozens?”   
  
He arches an eyebrow. “Rome,” he replies simply but with emphasis. “And I won't hear of my 'delicate hetero' anything ever again, thank you.”   
  
She stares at him, agape. “But you're -”   
  
“I was, maybe, one version of me. Not anymore.” He taps his temple with one finger, pretending that he doesn't feel disoriented and strange about it, still. “Keep remembering new things every day.”   
  
She doesn't seem to have any words. He feels immensely pleased with himself.   
  
“Speaking of which,” Rory continues, “Would you mind trimming your nails a bit shorter? We can try page twenty-six if you do.” She flips to the right page, and he has the fortune of watching the ensuing flush creep across her skin. He follows it with his mouth. “You know, if you're up for it,” he says against her shoulder.   
  
She hits him with his own pillow.   
  
***   
  
The next day, he wakes to find her in the adjoining bathroom, filing her nails. “Go wander,” she says, shooing him away. “I'll be a while. Stop by the infirmary, by the way, I need something for the stubble burn.” He plants a kiss in the part of her hair and glances in the mirror. She's right: he's getting a bit rough around the edges. He stops to shower – the strange mist-soap-mist-blowdry cycle it goes through is quick, but makes him feel as though he's gone through a carwash without the car – and shave, bumping his hip against her shoulder every now and then until she swats his rear in annoyance.   
  
“Ah, the magic's gone,” he sighs theatrically. She smacks him harder. “Unless that's the warm-up,” he says, and she laughs at him.   
  
“Did you see Chapter Four?” she asks, idly, while he's rummaging for clothes that aren't awful. His wedding suit is a sad pile in the corner. There's the deposit gone.    
  
He glances over. “Yees...” he says. “Why?”   
  
“Just curious.” He glances over. She's re-varnishing her nails, not even looking at him.   
  
Chapter Five becomes almost incoherent, dissolving into fractals and equations for spatial volume. There's a little bit of music theory, too, for good measure. But the one right before it is... well. “Right. I'll be back later. Want anything from the kitchen?” They don't go in there simultaneously anymore.   
  
“Hm... Some of those lemony pastry things,” she says. “And something rehydrating.”   
  
“Can do,” he says agreeably, and wanders off.   
  
The Doctor's in the kitchen when he gets there. “Oh, good, you haven't injured yourselves,” he says, using a serrated spoon to pick apart something that looks like a large, deep-purple grapefruit. “I was wondering.” He grimaces at the first bite, then empties almost half of the the salt cellar over it.   
  
“I am almost a doctor, you know,” Rory says, grinning at him. He can't really be insulted, after so much quality time with Amy. In fact, there are few things that enough (mostly) uninterrupted time with Amy can't solve.   
  
“Ah, true. But gravity belts can get away from you.” The Doctor has grease along the broad line of his jaw. Rory doesn't think about Chapter Four, he really doesn't. Mostly. Chapter Two sneaks in a bit, but he studiously ignores it.   
  
“We did notice that, thanks. It was nice of you to lend it to us, but it's not good for much more than novelty.”   
  
“True. 'Swhy I never used it.” Now he's adding pepper to the grapefruit-thing.   
  
Rory has to ask. “What are you eating?”   
  
“Cygnan blackfruit. You can't have any, you're probably allergic. And if you're not, you'll wish you were.” The Doctor takes a bite, seems pleased by the flavor, and sets in with gusto. “Really quite good if you're not human,” he says with his mouth full.   
  
Rory tears his eyes away from the trainwreck and starts looking for the spigot that dispenses his favorite tea. “I'm glad I ran into you. Was about to look for you, as a matter of fact...” He thinks he's found it. He depresses the toggle and takes a cautious sniff.   
  
Nope, soup. Rory dumps his mug out, rinses it, and tries again.   
  
“Really, you two worn out, I take it?” the Doctor asks mildly. (This time it's champagne. Good, but not what he's looking for. He makes a mental note of it for later.)   
  
“Give us another twelve- to twenty-four hours, I think, that'll do for now,” Rory says. He tries again. “Really, mustard?”   
  
“What do you need?” the Doctor says, coming up behind him and taking away the mug.   
  
“Tea, the one I had the second day I was here.” Rory goes hunting for the pastries, and has more luck. He fills a large plate with them.   
  
“Breakfast beverages are on this wall, here. All the green ones are tea.” There are over twenty of them. “Do you remember...?”   
  
“Strong, bit of an earthy berry thing, you could stand a spoon up in it?” He watches where the Doctor goes, tries to remember – second row, third from the right, green toggle, 'breakfast' wall. The Doctor hands it over and Rory sips cautiously. “Yup, that's the one.”   
  
“Good choice,” The Doctor says approvingly. “By the way, I've programmed everything in here to be laced with contraceptives.” Rory's tea decides to migrate to his sinuses and the front of his shirt.   
  
“You-” he splutters. He coughs some more and goes to look for the towels.   
  
“I'm sorry, but impending fatherhood inspires poor choices in hairstyles in you, it's been proven. Can't have any ponytails running around my ship, it's too distracting.”   
  
“We've been safe,” he manages after a few minutes of blowing his nose and blotting his clothing. “What d'you take us for?”   
  
The Doctor lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. “I don't care what you think you're doing, early twenty-first century medical technology just isn't reliably effective.”   
  
Rory sighs and gives up on the shirt as a lost cause. “I'll take your word for it,” he relents, sitting down with the pastries and a new mug of tea. “And next time, inform us before you do something that mucks about with our biology, at least so I can ask you how it works?”   
  
“It's a deal,” the Doctor grins and sits opposite him, “But I can't guarantee that I'll give you the whole answer.”   
  
Rory rolls his eyes expansively. “Right, of course.” He grabs a banana from the bowl on the table, then thinks better of it and picks an orange instead. It's a little more... red than it ought to be, but he assumes that it'll be all right, Amy loves the things.   
  
“I'm assuming that preventative medicine isn't quite what you wanted to ask me about, though...” the Doctor says, after finishing off the blackfruit. He gestures with the spoon like he's conducting an orchestra. “So tell me, Rory... You've saved the universe, rode off into the sunset and married the girl of your dreams, not necessarily in that order... what could possibly be...” He sits back, tossing the utensil on the table with a clatter and a triumphant smile. “Rory.”   
  
“What?” Rory says around a bite of pastry, then he rapidly swallows it with a swig of tea to wash it down. “I don't know what you're thinking, but you're probably wrong.”   
  
“You're remembering things.”   
  
“Or... all right. Yes, I'm remembering things, and it's a little unnerving. I feel like six different people dumped their lives into my brain, and that's not even counting the two thousand years of standing sentinel over my fiancee in a prison cube.”   
  
“Six?” The Doctor says musingly, “Try ten.” At Rory's expression he waves dismissively. “No, sorry, never mind. What do you want to know?”   
  
He has hundreds of questions, but the most important one is: “Why do I remember it all?”   
  
“I honestly don't know. Which you do you remember?”   
  
“Well,” Rory counts off on his fingers. “Myself when Amy had no parents but you existed, the Roman me without my old memory – and I'm counting the Roman me with memory as another half, if you please -”   
  
The Doctor nods. “Sensible enough, went through that phase myself for a bit, involved a pocketwatch and some scarecrows laying seige to a boarding school.”   
  
Rory attempts to process this and fails. He continues counting, “Then there's the dream-me in Upper Leadworth, then regular me when Amy did have parents but you didn't exist, and now... I'm all of them? It's just strange.”   
  
“So not six, then, but four and a half, maybe five and a half at a stretch,” the Doctor points out.   
  
Rory rolls his head back on his neck and addresses his reply to the ceiling like it'll be more coherent. “I have two thousand years of conflicting memories! I think that's quite enough, isn't it?”   
  
“Point,” the Doctor concedes. “Hm.” He steeples his long fingers in front of him and scowls into the middle distance for a minute. “Honestly, it is really mucking with you, or are you just having trouble while it all settles in?”   
  
Rory thinks about this. “Yes.” He starts picking apart his orange.   
  
“What am I supposed to tell you, Rory?” The Doctor's voice is quiet, a mellifluous little murmur that creeps into the heart of it all. Sympathy there in his voice, and sadness, and a little guilt.   
  
Rory thinks about it, shredding the rind with his fingers as he does. The fruit falls apart in Rory's hands, radial symmetry in three dimensions, not what he was expecting. He's accidentally put his thumb through one segment, and red juice trickles down into his palm. He stares at it a moment, then brings his hand up to lick it away.   
  
When he looks up, the Doctor's staring at him intently, and Rory has to look away again.   
  
“I suppose,” he says carefully, “I just need to know what's real? Which of all the things I remember are reality? Which are actually me?”   
  
“All of them,” the Doctor says, simply. He fumbles in his jacket pocket, brings out a ball of yarn.   
  
“Why-?” Rory lets the question trail off, starting to learn. There's a reason for all of it, perfectly logical, if you look at it from the right perspective. Not one he can always follow, but it's there.   
  
“Never know when you'll get trapped in a labyrinth,” the Doctor says. Perfectly logical. “Back to the point.” He waves the yarn around. “Pick a spot on the surface, or anywhere inside. Any point on the thread. Then pick another. Right next to it, across the whole, not even touching.” He pauses, tosses it from hand to hand. “Now, despite the tangle and the snarl it looks like from the outside, both points are part of the same line, yeah? Just... jumbled. Still the same, still real, just hard to see the continuity unless it's all unraveled and laid out.” He sets it down on the table with a definite flourish. It spins a little and bumps into the not-a-grapefruit bowl.   
  
“Mm,” Rory says, understanding the Doctor's point if not seeing its application. Memories and identities aren't the same thing as a bit of string.   
  
Except the Doctor seems to think they are.   
  
It tells him more about the Doctor than anything else. He breaks apart the segments of his orange, one at a time, lining them up on a paper napkin.   
  
“So I'm really two thousand-plus years old?”   
  
“And twenty-five-”   
  
“Twenty-eight, thank you.”    
  
“Twenty-eight at the same time.”   
  
“And you're eight hundred-”   
  
“Nine hundred and seven. And I'm only a couple of months old, if we're counting this physical incarnation.”   
  
Rory accepts that bit of information without comment, though it piques his curiosity. Something he can ask about later. He pops one of the segments into his mouth and chews, doing the math. “So I'm older than you?”    
  
The Doctor's forehead furrows. “Well. Kind of. Don't take it as any sign of superiority, mind, I've done a lot more than you, have a lot more...” he pauses, spots the grin that Rory's trying to hide. “Stop that, it has nothing to do with-”   
  
Rory can't help but laugh. And after a bit, the Doctor does, too.   
  
A couple of minutes later, they're still chuckling when Amy comes in. “Oi, I was getting worried, what did I miss?”   
  
“Several hundred years, give or take,” Rory says to her, and they're off again. She stares at them, utterly bewildered. Her expression makes him want to pull her down into his lap, kiss her senseless. His fingers are just circling her wrist when he catches himself, sees the Doctor grinning and relaxed across the table from them. He doesn't want to break this moment, delicate as glass, so he just squeezes her hand in reassurance.   
  
The Doctor's eyes are sharp and bright, flickering between their faces and their hands, and Rory just smiles back. Amy pulls away, mildly irritated at being left out but willing to let it go in favor of getting her own breakfast.   
  
She has no trouble finding the tea.   
  
***   
  
Amy is a very quick study. 'Trying out page twenty-six' turns into two hours of her driving Rory absolutely mad, flipping through the book to find new variations every time he thinks she's done with him. Finally, he takes it away from her and throws it across the room. When she starts to protest, he takes both her hands and rolls her under him and pins her there. She squirms and protests weakly, but it's half-hearted at best. He proceeds to return the favors she's done him, plus interest.   
  
“That was new,” she says when they're done, but she's smiling and boneless in his arms so he knows she's not really upset. “Bit forceful, love.” She stretches languorously on the sheets. He wonders if she'll be as forgiving when she finds the love bites blossoming against her pale skin. It had been one of her rules, No marks, or the customers won't tip as much and they'll get handsy, too. Not that it matters, now. Only the Doctor to spot the bruises.   
  
Some of them, anyway. Something truly impossible would have to happen for the Doctor to see the rest. Rory gets distracted by the realization that 'impossible' feels more 'disappointing' than 'vindicating.' Should I be upset about this? he wonders. He decides he doesn't have the energy. He still feels like the right person, and that's the important part.   
  
“Yeah, sorry, you were just... you were so...” Rory answers finally. He seems to have forgotten how to end sentences. He gestures in the air above them to compensate.   
  
“Then I was doing it right,” she says triumphantly.   
  
“More than, yeah,” he says. He grins like an idiot up at the ceiling.   
  
***   
  
“So tell me about Rome,” Amy says the next morning, propping herself up on one elbow and arching an eyebrow at him. She's angling for something, and he doesn't think it's just anecdotes from his fake plastic lifetime. He throws an arm over his face, feeling it heat up. It's too early in the morning to handle Amy's scheming.    
  
“No.” Now he can feel her sulking next to him. Ever since they were little, she's been able to radiate disappointment like heat from a furnace. Like radio waves. The Doctor should have a receiver for that kind of thing, then he wouldn't have come back late. She'd never get lost, sucked into the dirt or swallowed by a space whale or anything, ever again.   
  
“Rory...” she says, poking him in the ribs with one finger.   
  
He looks at her over the top of his elbow. Her eyes are wide and bright and inquisitive, and she's so heart-stoppingly beautiful that he just stares for a minute. I'd do anything for her, he thinks. I already did.   
  
And this isn't exactly a sacrifice.    
  
When he thinks about it like that, it's ridiculously simple. Not terrible, or frightening, or something his other memories tell him is out of the ordinary, really. What's silly is his kicking up a fuss about it. In fact, the idea sends an unexpected little thrill percolating in the pit of his stomach.    
  
“Fine,” he says, rolling out of bed and looking for his pajama bottoms.   
  
“What?” she asks behind him. He glances over. She's sitting in the middle of the bed, sheet clutched around her, hair all disheveled. She looks gorgeous and absolutely confused.   
  
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand.   
  
“What?!” she says again, louder. She takes his hand anyway, and he hoists her up, pulls her close, kisses her deeply and adds an edge to it, like a blade or a promise. He remembers when he was a centurion. He'd kissed his wife like this before riding off to war.   
  
She'd looked like Amy.    
  
She'd only been a false memory, implanted in his programming, based on Amy's subconscious. Of course she'd looked like Amy.   
  
It doesn't matter, it had all turned out in the end.   
  
He breaks off and she's looking even more confused. “Let's go find the Doctor,” he says, because it's the most obvious thing in the world.   
  
She blinks, frowning, then laughs, sharp and bright. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”   
  
He shrugs. “Does it matter? Come on, if we don't do this now I'll lose my nerve.”   
  
“All right, all right,” she says, throwing on an oversized button-down he'd discarded... he stops for a second. He'd tossed it aside while he was deciding what to wear to Rio. It could have been erased from time, once. “Will this do?” She looks positively indecent.    
  
He grins, nodding. “Let's go.”   
  
The Doctor's in the kitchen again, just about to split open another of those horrible grapefruit things. He gets on food kicks, and will eat the same thing for days at a time. Rory reaches over and takes it away.   
  
“Good morning,” the Doctor says amiably. “Don't eat that, it'll probably kill you.”   
  
Rory hefts it in one hand, eyes it speculatively. “Morning, sorry, yes, I remember. 'Swhy I took it away. Secondary exposure,” he explains in a rush, tossing it aside on the counter.   
  
“What?” The Doctor asks, and Rory braces himself, makes himself walk forward, crowding the other man against the cabinets. “Rory, what-?” The rest gets muffled when Rory kisses him. It's messy, and the wrong angle is only made worse by the Doctor's squirming, but Rory corrects it, and suddenly, there. The Doctor stops for a moment, relaxes against him, mouth parting under Rory's, and it's brilliant.   
  
Then he gets shoved away, of course. Rory doesn't go far, just rocks forward again using the anchor of his hands on the Doctor's narrow hips. “Rory!” The Doctor says, and then it's all protests of age (which gets nicely turned round, and that is never going to stop being weird), and species, and marriage, and then Amy pops her head round the doorframe, on cue, grinning wickedly, all long hair and longer legs and the shirt riding high on her thighs. “You put him up to this, didn't you?” the Doctor accuses.   
  
“Not... really,” she laughs. “I was thinking about it, but he beat me to it.” She comes in, hips rolling like she's wearing her work shoes. Rory presses forward, against the Doctor, and finds the other man not entirely unaffected. She tucks her arms round Rory's waist, resting her chin on his shoulder, her front against his back. “So. Doctor. You were saying. Holy vows of matrimony, and all that.” Her amusement trembles against Rory's spine.   
  
“I... you... both of you...” The Doctor closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall. Rory allows him that much space, though he casts an appreciative eye over the long column of exposed throat.   
  
“If... if you like, yes,” Rory says, tucking his forefingers into the Doctor's belt loops. It's like he's fifteen again, tangled with Amy on her couch the first time they'd really messed around. Intimate and awkward simultaneously, but thrilling nonetheless. He ducks his head, staring down at Amy's hands, “I mean, if we aren't. If you don't.”   
  
“Oh shut it,” the Doctor says to the ceiling. “Is this how he got you, Amy, this shy, insecure, bashful act? Because his erection at my hip is telling a different story.”   
  
Her laughter is loud at his ear, and Rory ducks away. “He was worse.” She plants a kiss against the side of Rory's neck, apology and affection at once. Her fingers shift in the narrow bit of space, tangle around the Doctor's shirt buttons. “Doctor.”   
  
The Doctor shifts, surges, grabs Rory's shoulders and pushes with surprising strength. Rory finds their positions reversed, his back to the cabinets and the Doctor a stern, looming wall, Amy off to one side. “You,” the Doctor says, pointing a finger at Amy, “hush a minute.” She makes an indignant noise, and he puts the finger on her lips. She looks at it cross-eyed, and then snaps her teeth at it, but he moves it away quickly. “No, really, we all know where you stand, but I need to talk to Rory a minute.” He puts one hand on Rory's neck, presses their foreheads together, somehow intimate but not quite. “Rory. Rory. You're all muddled.”   
  
Rory makes a noise, somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “Don't-”   
  
“Rory. Do you really-?”   
  
“Yes.” Rory says insistently. “Doctor. Yes.”   
  
The Doctor's eyes dart back and forth, like he's cataloging Rory's features independently and correlating the results. Then he lets out a long breath. “Right. All right,” he says, and then he closes the distance, kissing Rory gently. Almost careful, but not enough. Rory parts his lips and there, it's like a switch is flipped, and the Doctor is consuming him, warm and wet and yes. He tangles his fingers in the Doctor's ridiculous floppy hair, pulls him closer, and he's lost.   
  
“Oh,” Amy says beside them, something like awe in her voice. Rory pulls away to catch his breath, and he looks at her.   
  
“All right?” he asks, laughing a little, and her jaw drops. Her only answer is to dart forward, claim his lips next, kissing him senseless. He buckles a little against the wall, and the Doctor's hands go to his waist, one thigh sliding between Rory's, pinning him in place.   
  
“Rhetorical question,” the Doctor murmurs absently, breath ghosting over Rory's ear. “Oh, you two, lovely. Kept shagging all over my ship, daring me to walk in.” He bites, quick thrill of pain, just below Rory's jawline. “And this new body-” Another nip. “Takes some getting used to. Cravings. I can't-”   
  
“Oi, Doctor,” Amy says, pulling back. “Stop talking.” And she proceeds to keep his mouth occupied.   
  
Rory stares. Some part of him is saying that he should be upset, but he can't, not with the Doctor's thigh moving just so and Amy's hand snaking down the side of his pajama pants to grab his ass. And they're beautiful together, and they both want him. He tries to remember how to work his lungs.   
  
The Doctor extricates one arm to pull Amy closer, and Rory guesses where his hand goes next, because he pulls away, looking startled. “Pond,” he says. “No knickers?”   
  
“We were in a rush,” she says, giggling.   
  
“Just a shirt and a pair of trousers between the two of you,” the Doctor says, delight setting sparks in his eyes. “You were very sure of yourselves, weren't you?”   
  
“Well you did keep walking in. Gave us that book,” Rory points out. “Speaking of clothes, you're overdressed.”   
  
“... absolutely right,” the Doctor says, pulling away abruptly. Amy and Rory cling together in his sudden absence, holding each other up. “But we're not doing this here. Not sanitary. I'm not setting the kitchen on autoclean for the fourth time this week.” And he whirls on his heel, walking a little unsteadily down the corridor.   
  
Amy blinks, then looks at Rory. He grins down at her, and they race each other to follow the Doctor's lead.   


 

  
\- END -

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I will confess, Sam_Storyteller beat me to this concept and did it better (and somewhat more seriously) than I ever could, though I conceived of it independently of reading [their story](http://sam-storyteller.dreamwidth.org/147383.html).


End file.
